


Melting

by Alpha24 (an_faolchu_fuilteach)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dirty Talk, Fucking, Ice Play, John "Three Continents" Watson, John is silly when drinking, M/M, Rimming, Sherlock has A Thing for ice, Top John Watson, epic ice fight, shagging for England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:11:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11631990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_faolchu_fuilteach/pseuds/Alpha24
Summary: In which the hottest summer on record disturbs Sherlock in one too many ways, ice is a means to a satisfying end, and what was contained is let loose."John's grip weakens for an instant and the next thing Sherlock knows, John has rolled, straddled him, pinned both wrists with one hand and used the other to stuff a very large, wet handful of half-melted ice under the front of his t-shirt. Sherlock sits bolt upright in shock, the ice sliding across his chest and belly. He lets out a shuddering gasp, slamming his eyes shut at the sensation, first hunching inward then arching his back and hips before falling back. Suddenly, everything goes very still."





	Melting

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I was an Ao3 writer named "consultingdepressive;" she wrote a bit of Sherlock back in 2012. Please note this is one of my earliest (if not THE earliest) fics I wrote for Sherlock, back then. It's still a touch sloppy, a bit cliché, maybe a bit out of character, but I was proud of it at the time, and I still (mostly) am.
> 
> Disclaimer: Making absolutely no profit or gain beyond my own satisfaction, characters aren't mine, etc, etc.

 

It's hot, too hot to bear, really. Worst day on record,  designed purely to irritate and annoy him. No air is moving, the heat persists late into the evening and circles around the flat like a living thing. Sherlock is by no means his usual crisp self as he slowly climbs the stairs to their flat, feeling the temperature rise as he ascends. The door is open, so he assumes John is home and probably as irritable as he is himself _. Good. Why should I be the only one?_ He feels as though he is melting in his thinnest pair of wool trousers and lightest silk shirt. As he opens his mouth -- intending to complain loudly and at great length about the appalling heat -- he stops and takes in the sight before him.

John is sprawled out on the sofa, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. His eyes are closed and his hand wrapped around a very tall glass of what could be water, but Sherlock knows is a large gin and tonic. Beads of moisture roll down the sides of the glass and down John's wrists. The entire scene is... unsettling. Every scar, line and mole can be seen on John's body; from the shattered-star outline of the bullet wound on his shoulder and the caduceus tattoo on his bicep, to the shapely curve of hip into groin. Sherlock takes in the recent scar curving along John's forearm _(from blocking a knife meant for Sherlock_ ), another faintly pink line striping across his belly _(that fall they took a few weeks ago)_ and the still-healing reddened scratch marks on the muscular legs _(climbing, two days ago)_ and finds himself speechless. Especially when his mind helpfully supplies, _no, not really, you can't see_ every _bit, can you;_ part _of him is still covered._ Sherlock's breath huffs out as he hastily begins to roll up his sleeves. Too damned hot.

John's eyes open languidly. He leans forward to take a sip of his drink and sighs before reaching for a bunch of grapes sitting in a large bowl of ice on the coffee table. He puts two in his mouth and slowly sucks on them. _Frozen_ , Sherlock's mind offers up, _that's why he's sucking on them_. John swallows the grapes, draws an ice-cube from his glass and crunches it between his teeth. He rolls his eyes in Sherlock's direction. "Fucking hot," he murmurs, "aren't you dying in those clothes?"

This is not like John. This is not the John Watson that Sherlock is accustomed to seeing. Sucking on grapes, barely dressed, languid and slow. It grates on Sherlock's nerves. The ice crunching continues from the sofa and Sherlock finds himself gritting his teeth. "Can you stop that?"

"No." Calmly, John sucks in another mouthful of ice.

Sherlock grits harder as the noise continues. "It's ruin for your teeth, not to mention my tranquility," he snaps.

John ignores him and takes another sip of his drink. He shudders as icy drops of condensation fall from the glass onto his belly. As he drains the glass and rises to refill it, Sherlock finds himself watching the play of muscles on John’s torso as he rolls himself up from the sofa, the bunching of thighs and buttocks under those ridiculously fitted briefs as John steps into the kitchen, the shift of tendons in his forearms as John mixes more gin, tonic and ice into his glass. He slides another cube into his mouth, rolling the icy glass across his forehead, neck and chest, moaning in relief. When he sighs and leans against the counter, back arching in a stretch, Sherlock suddenly finds that he needs to leave the room. _It's the heat_ , he decides. There's no other reason for feeling this unsettled.

He goes to his room, shedding clothing and letting it fall where it will. Within moments he's in the shower, a cold, stinging shower that is cooling his body if not his thoughts. The spray is hard, fine, like tiny needles and the stimulus is almost too much as his mind replays the roll of muscles and icy water on skin. He finds himself growing hard and gives himself one long, slow, teasing slide before slamming his palm against the tile in frustration. He'd known for some time now that his thoughts had been edging this way, that John had awoken thoughts that had been buried for years. He hadn't expected it to become very nearly unbearable.

He soaks for a few minutes, trying to even out his thoughts before he steps out. Back in his room he hesitates, realises the oppressive heat is going nowhere anytime soon, and puts on his lightest pyjama pants and most threadbare t-shirt. He can't bring himself to go without the t-shirt; he would feel oddly exposed, too thin, too open. When he comes back out, John is on the sofa again, still crunching ice. Sherlock glares and walks to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. John watches him under hooded lids, ice crackling between his teeth.

"Must you?" Sherlock snaps.

"Why's it so annoying t' you?" John slurs around a mouthful of ice, knowing exactly how irritating he is being and not caring one bit.

"Because it _irritates_!" Sherlock explodes, throwing up his hands. The noise is driving him mad, teeth biting, sucking, crushing the ice. John slowly sits up, takes another mouthful, pointedly looks at Sherlock and crunches. His eyes crinkle just the slightest bit and Sherlock knows he's being mocked. "Stop. It. John."

John's eyes narrow in reply. "Make. Me."  The quiet menace in his voice is ruined a moment later when he lets out a breathy giggle, the gin and tonics apparently taking their toll. Then he takes another mouthful of ice.

Sherlock takes a step towards him, and John snickers. _Crunch, crunch_.

Sherlock springs toward the sofa and John flings a handful of ice chips at him, hitting him squarely in the face.

Sherlock sputters indignantly as John's eyes narrow like a tiger’s and he grins. And before he knows it, Sherlock has tossed his glass of water into John's face. There is the slightest hitch of breath and then an explosion of laughter and John launches himself off the sofa, tossing handfuls of ice and melted water from the bowl of grapes. Sherlock lets out an undignified yelp as he is chased across the room and into the kitchen. He is only allowed seconds to reload his glass from the tap before John darts in and pours ice down the back of his t-shirt.

"You _bastard_ ," Sherlock howls, lunging to grab him as John dashes back into the sitting room, laughing like a maniac.

Sherlock comes at him, glass of water at the ready. John is a few feet away, grinning like an idiot, bowl of ice-water still in his hand, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet. "Come on," he taunts, "come get me."

Sherlock deliberately relaxes his stance, letting features settle into defeat and disapproval, "John, this is ridiculous." And as John mirrors him, relaxing his own stance, Sherlock leaps, the glass of water going over John's head.

John shouts and tackles Sherlock sideways to the floor. He is roaring with laughter, shaking the water out of his hair and onto Sherlock's face. Sherlock is trying to get out from John's grasp and failing spectacularly. "Give it up," John gasps out, giggling, "You're not getting away... Surrender!"

"Never," Sherlock hisses, still writhing and trying to get free. They are twisting and flailing across the floor, legs kicking furniture, hands gripping limbs, John giggling and Sherlock's teeth bared in frustration as he tries to escape. The situation is only making him feel more unsettled.

John's grip weakens for an instant and the next thing Sherlock knows, John has rolled, straddled him, pinned both wrists with one hand and used the other to stuff a very large, wet handful of half-melted ice under the front of his t-shirt.

Sherlock sits bolt upright in shock, the ice sliding across his chest and belly. He lets out a shuddering gasp, slamming his eyes shut at the sensation, first hunching inward then arching his back and hips before falling back. Suddenly, everything goes very still.

John is no longer laughing but staring down at him intently, considering. He releases Sherlock's wrists but continues straddling him. Sherlock opens his eyes to see John licking his lips and before John can move, Sherlock reaches out, snatches ice from the bowl and neatly drops it into the waistband of John's briefs. There is a yelp and John moves exactly as Sherlock had predicted. Had _hoped_. Instead of moving back and away, John moves his hips forward to melt the cold from his skin with a slide of crotch against crotch. Sherlock's breath hitches and the connection is suddenly made. His body has betrayed him and John has to know, has to realise what's happening, has to _feel_ what's happening to Sherlock.

John's eyes are wide. Sherlock can almost see the rapid progression of thoughts happening inside that skull. The seconds drag slowly by, filled with their panting breaths. Then John reaches out with wet, icy fingertips and slowly ghosts them down Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and he hears John sigh. He feels the rounded tip of a melting ice cube on his cheek, drifting slowly down his jaw to circle his lips. Sherlock can't help the soft moan that escapes him. And then John's mouth is suddenly on his, slippery, cold, wet, licking into his mouth with ragged gasps.

John pulls back, fingers scrabbling at Sherlock's t-shirt. In one graceful movement, Sherlock arches his back again and pulls the shirt off, falling back to the floor to let John do what he will. John gazes down at him with something akin to reverence, mouth slightly open, licking those lips that Sherlock wants to devour. He can't bring himself to ask, to beg, even though he's dying for John to touch him again, to kiss him.

John's hand comes up to Sherlock's neck and Sherlock shudders as he feels the chunk of ice sliding slowly down the tendons, jaw to shoulder. The tingling of nerves from the cold and the slide of wetness is exquisite, almost unbearably so. John's hand slides lower until he's circling a nipple, and this time Sherlock doesn't even try to stop the moan that escapes as John leans down to blow at it, the heat of his breath mingling with the melting ice. When John takes the nipple between his teeth, Sherlock's mind goes blank to everything but the pinpoint of sensation, " _Yes_."

John sits up again, slides another piece of ice into his mouth and leans down to kiss Sherlock. His tongue teases the edges of Sherlock's lips, cold tip tracing the outlines. And when Sherlock impatiently leans forward to suck John's tongue into his mouth, John moans and grinds against him. Sherlock's brain is in freefall, he can't process this quickly enough, he can't categorise or analyse the sensations, it's all too much, all too _good_. John's hands have come back up, pinning Sherlock's wrists above his head, hips rocking into Sherlock's as the kiss deepens, and Sherlock has to pull his mouth away so that he can breathe, can moan.

John's eyes are heavy, half-lidded, as he slowly slides down Sherlock's body. His fingers tug at the waistband of Sherlock's briefs and Sherlock finds himself biting down on his own hand in anticipation. He lifts his hips so John can pull the clothing away, and hears John's soft laugh, "Oh, my God, yes," when his cock is finally free to John's gaze. John looks up at him for a moment and Sherlock can see the lust in his eyes, the pure naked greed. Making sure Sherlock is still watching, John slides another chunk of ice into his mouth. Sherlock's eyes widen. He cries out as John's icy tongue begins to circle his lower belly, tracing random paths.

John's tongue sweeps lower and lower, until he's swiping along Sherlock's upper thighs, nose coming close but never actually touching what Sherlock is aching for. He wants John's mouth on his cock so badly, he's panting. W _on't beg, won't ask, won't_... his hips cant forward as John comes close, so close that Sherlock groans. And then John's mouth closes over him and Sherlock can't breathe. Still cool from the ice, John's tongue and lips slide around the shaft and Sherlock is suddenly babbling, " _God_ , yes, John, god, _oh fuck_..."

His hands flutter down to try and rest in John's hair but John traps his narrow wrists and pins them to his sides, holding Sherlock down, never missing a stroke with that mouth, sucking and licking until Sherlock is gasping, writhing, moaning. And then John abruptly stops, and Sherlock is mortified at the whimper that escapes his lips.

"Patience," John whispers as Sherlock tips his head back, staring at the ceiling and trying to still his breathing. He hears the clink of ice and a slurping sound that makes him clench his eyes shut in anticipation. He opens them to see John lower his head and lick an icy stripe down his cock and towards his balls. John hitches Sherlock's hips up between his arms and when he slicks his tongue down his perineum, Sherlock lets out a shuddering moan that must be loud enough to be heard in the flat below.

The cold point of John’s tongue feels so obscenely good that he could cry. It's probing, pointing, pushing against him and he wants to be filled, to be _fucked_ like he hasn't in years, "John, _for God's sake, please,"_ he moans. The tongue is too much, the icy cold is too good and he can't believe it's John doing this. He takes himself in hand, stroking fast and hard.

John promptly reaches up, stopping the movement of Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock glares at him and John laughs softly, as if he can hear the profanities Sherlock is thinking at him. He slides upwards until their cocks are aligned, his mouth hovering over Sherlock’s.

Sherlock is panting at the sensation, the slide, and John's breath is coming quick as he whispers harshly, " _Tell me_."

As a rule, Sherlock doesn't let anyone tell him what to do, ever. But in this instance it only serves to fan his desire more. Still he refuses to acquiesce, stubborn to the last. Until John takes him in hand and starts slowly stroking, giving a delicious, gliding twist on each down stroke that has Sherlock panting in seconds.

"Say it, Sherlock," John whispers, breathing into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock is gasping his breath back into John as John's tongue begins to flick out lightly, catching Sherlock's lips, tongue, teeth, then taking Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth and sucking at it until Sherlock is moaning, "Please, John, _please_."

"Please what?" There is more sucking on lips, more flicks of the tongue, and more circling of fingers over the head of Sherlock's cock until he thinks he's going to go mad.

He won't give in. He won't. He _won't_... "God, John, just _fuck_ me!" he gasps, and feels John laugh breathily into his mouth before devouring him in a kiss that steals the air out of Sherlock’s chest. Then John pulls away and stands up, and Sherlock is suddenly terrified that it was all a horrible joke, a moment of madness brought on by the heat. Until he sees John's cock tenting his own briefs and the glazed look in his eyes.

"Wait a moment, be right back," John chokes out and leaps for the stairs, taking two at a time up to his room.

Sherlock lies naked on the sitting room floor, chest heaving, cock aching, lips throbbing, hands clenching at his sides. Sex had been so dull for so long, something that wasn't worth indulging in or dealing with. But that was before John. Before John ran with him, killed for him, argued with him, defended him so ferociously. Before he'd given him everything. And now Sherlock wants to give _back_. ~~~~

John is coming back downstairs, more slowly this time. Sherlock tilts his head back and spots the small bottle in John’s hand. His cock aching, hands shaking in anticipation at the thought of John fucking him, Sherlock has never wanted anything so badly in his life.

John looks down at Sherlock, licking his lips. He slides his briefs down and away, completely naked at last, and Sherlock's mouth waters at the sight. John kneels beside his side and murmurs, "If only I'd known sooner that ice affects you this way." He smiles crookedly as he dips his fingers in the bowl still lying on the floor, and slides an icy-cool trail down Sherlock's hot skin, down the prick which is positively straining for him.

"Well, now you know," Sherlock gasps, "so could you get on with it, for God's sake?"

John grins and leans down for a kiss that turns ferocious within seconds as Sherlock finally reaches out to touch what he's wanted for so long. He runs his slender fingers down John’s muscled arms, exploring his scars and teasing down across his hips before finally reaching out to take John in his hand, sliding down hot, silky skin. John groans into his mouth and Sherlock can feel how slick he is already, how much he's has been leaking. John stretches out beside Sherlock, letting Sherlock stroke him, letting him wring out whatever sounds he can from him. Breathy moans, whimpers and finally a loud groan emerges as Sherlock gives a particularly rough twist to the slide of his hand.

John abruptly pulls back, moving to settle himself between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock hears the pop of a cap, and fingers are sliding between his buttocks, circling his hole. He lets out a low moan as a single finger slides in just over the ring of muscle, teasing, utterly useless, and his hips pump into empty air, seeking more. Frustrated, wanting nothing so much as to be fucked senseless, he begins to chant, "Fuck me, fuck me, John, just do it, _fuck me_ ," helpless and hopeless and never going to get enough of John.

John pulls his hand away and Sherlock looks down to see him slicking up his cock before roughly grabbing at Sherlock's narrow hips. He slides easily across the carpet and he's against John's groin, biting his lip, rolling his hips upward to allow John better access, his own cock bouncing on his stomach.

He closes his eyes and feels John's hands fumbling, John sliding into him and... there's a simultaneous gasp of astonishment, a perfect blending of flesh and sound so piercing that Sherlock knows that this is one piece of data he will never, _ever_ be able to rid himself of.  John is shaking, obviously trying to give Sherlock time to adjust, but just as obviously holding on by a thread, "All right?" he chokes out.

"Yes. _Yes_. Please..." Sherlock groans, rolling his hips.

John gasps and hitches Sherlock's knees up against his chest as he begins to rock his hips. " _Christ_ , oh _fuck_ , _so_ fucking _good_..." his voice growls in rhythm with his shallow thrusts and Sherlock wonders if he's actually going to survive this. The sensations rolling over him are too sharp, too fierce, too fantastically good to believe and it's been so long and it's _John_ and...  John begins to push harder. His thrusts become faster and he's alternating between staring down into Sherlock's face in disbelief and closing his eyes in pleasure. He flings his head back and Sherlock growls, seeing the line of his neck, wanting to bite it. John is pounding into him now, fast and rough, and though Sherlock knows he himself is not quite ready to finish, he wants to see John come apart for him, come apart _in_ him.

"Oh _, fuck_..." John whispers, hips suddenly stuttering to a halt, sliding out and then slamming his cock back in full-force as a long groan escapes his lips as he comes,  rapidly pumping his hips against Sherlock. Sherlock moans, watching, his hand reaching for his cock, wanting to share this with John, wanting to share everything with John, always wanting John.

There is a breath, a moment where John stops and then carefully slips out of Sherlock, and Sherlock feels the loss as his hand continues to pump furiously. But then John slides down and takes Sherlock in his mouth and he's begging, pleading, no longer caring what's coming out of his mouth because his cock is being sucked so beautifully, so perfectly.

When John pulls away, just as Sherlock is at the edge, it's a breathless moment of terror until he looks up to see John poised over him, eyes gleaming, "Go on, I want to see you. Do it yourself, come for me, do it." Sherlock pumps his fist, watching John's face hovering just above his cock, so close, and then John's fingers slide back inside him, curling and pressing. Sherlock shouts as John fucks him and his slick cock flashes through his own fingers and he's coming and John lowers his mouth to the head, sucking, draining, swallowing and Sherlock is coming so hard he's nearly sobbing and John is still fucking him, fingers thrusting, still sucking and it's far too much... "John, _stop_ ," he groans.

John instantly pulls away and slides back up beside him, gently laying a hand in Sherlock's curls as his body continues to shudder violently, "Let it go, I've got you."

Sherlock rides out the aftershocks, gasping, moaning softly, " _ohfuck, ohfuck, ohfuck_ ," a litany of shock and gratitude that he finally _can_ let go, can let everything go, here with John. Always with John. 

Several minutes go by as their breathing slows. John disentangles himself gently, but Sherlock still can't bring himself to open his eyes. He flinches when he feels something cold and wet dabbing at his groin and he blinks his eyes open to see John wiping him down with Sherlock's dampened t-shirt.

"Hope you aren't overly fond of this shirt," John murmurs, smiling.

"I'll never wash it again," Sherlock answers, utterly serious.

John laughs softly, wrinkling his nose, and swipes the damp shirt up over Sherlock's chest until Sherlock grabs his hand to stop him. John looks at him quizzically and Sherlock can see the anxiety, the sudden doubt in John's eyes as he nervously licks his lips. He lays aside the shirt, clearing his throat, blushing furiously and looking anywhere but at Sherlock, "We, ah, we don't need to over think this," he stammers, "I mean, we don't have to..."

"We need some electric fans," Sherlock interrupts him, and John cocks his head, puzzled. "Experiment with the constant airflow the next time. With the ice."

John begins to smile, a slow bloom that makes Sherlock's breath catch as John leans over to kiss his lips, licking gently. Sherlock begins to wrap an arm around John but he leans back, "Sherlock, no."

As Sherlock feels his stomach leap into his throat, John stretches, stands, and then extends a hand to him. "Shower. Now. And if we're still awake afterwards I'll call for take-out. And if we're still awake after _that,_ well... bed." He smiles shyly, his dark blue eyes flicking over Sherlock's face to gauge his reaction.

"Where I will promptly repay you for throwing ice at me," Sherlock says, eyes narrowed, grinning back.

"I hope so. I really do." John pulls him to his feet, kissing him thoroughly, slowly, and Sherlock knows now for certain: John had been waiting for _him_ to melt, too.

 


End file.
